


Little party never killed nobody

by KeiserFranz



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom John Lennon, Hand Jobs, M/M, McBeardy, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Smut, a solid pinch of insecurities, that's the point I guess??, the word penis appears a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:00:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26217529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeiserFranz/pseuds/KeiserFranz
Summary: Paul's grumpy and drunk, having the worst time of his life at some snobish party. That is until he makes eye contact with a mysterious (🙃) stranger and suddenly the lines "In the day nothing matters. It's the nigh time that flatters." make perfect sense. (Or, as a poet might say, they shag.)
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 18
Kudos: 79





	1. Gashing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they stare a lot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a song by fergie is the title, course, because "John giving Paul a head" didn't sound that appealing
> 
> also, just a side note, I imagined Paul being around 27 (bc he's a bit of a wreck here, so I felt like McBeardy was fitting) while John is 32-ish (something like [this polaroid](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/46/c5/4c/46c54c2dc9216b7ba96409c229c966d4.png) by Andy Warhol; doesn't mean he's not a walking misery - surprise! he is)

Paul nibbled mindlessly at his finger, a persistent habit of his, as the taxi was zigzagging its way through night London. Buildings, people, the whole outside world was flashing behind the windows, tons of blurred dots, but, eyebrows furrowed slightly, he appeared too engulfed by his imagination.

Next to him, not too close; not too far, a silhouette of another person occupied the space. To the driver, an older man happy to do his job without any additional conversation, lucky them, they probably looked like a couple of friends getting home after a party.

Not so bad taking in account Paul only knew 2 things about the stranger — name was John and his skilful mouth left one awestruck.

He shook himself mentally, " _focus on now, focus on now, focus on now"_ repeating in his head like a broken record. He cast his companion a wondering look — the dim light glossed over his face, and, as far as Paul dared to go with his body-language reading skills, the man seemed unfazed, relaxed even.

Now, that didn't soothe Paul's jittery nerves at all, not being the one to usually go for one-night stands with men, his heart threatened to jump right through his chest. But then, recently he wasn't the one to attend fancy birthday parties, too, especially the ones held in a glamorous bar, thrown by a person he had never seen.

Ivan, an old friend of his and ever the social butterfly, insisted he _had_ to come. And Paul had promised to show up, mainly to make his mate to shut his mouth for a minute, the enticement of an unlimited supply of expensive alcohol being the only benefit he could think of.

He pondered not going at all, making up a flimsy excuse, but George, yet another old pal of his, decided to take the matter in his own hands. When he paid him a visit, a half munched package of biscuits in his hands, brown eyes screaming determination, Paul recognised his defeat.

Not only he would accompany him to make sure he would turn up, the entire time of Paul's preparations had been interwoven with little crumbs of wisdom. (“You always have to look for the silver lining, right? Look, here it says free food!”)

Deep down he was aware of the fact his two best friends were simply trying to lift his spirits. Which, jokes aside, had hit the bottom of the bottom after his split with Dot. That itself wasn't really a big surprise, since for the last 6 months of their relationship they barely resembled a couple they once used to be. Pointless arguments, cold stares, separated bedrooms.

Looking back, he couldn't recall a single reason why. Perhaps the very essence of Paul played an important role. He didn't like to be told he wasn't capable of something. Training a big shepherd dog on his own? Keeping his love for Dot alive? Didn't matter, his retort would always be gritting his teeth and, as stubborn as a mule, trying just a bit harder.

When it didn't work out, after Dot stormed out of his (their) flat, slamming the door, he had the impression it didn't happen to him. Couldn't be. Was he really this useless at the age of nearly 30?

Initially he told himself it was all for good, but, when he hadn't shaved for a month, his neat hair now a mane, he began to grasp he wasn't that unaffected. It took him much more time (and bottles of cheap whiskey) to interact with the outside world again.

He joked, smiled, visited his family, continued with his life as if nothing had happened. And if, by any means, he felt tired at the end of the day. Or, just theoretically speaking, had broken down in front of George once or twice, that was a secret nobody needed to know.

Maybe the party was a way to turn his life around again. He'd grown fed up with the murky McCartney himself.

Right. Despite his promise to stick to Paul's side, George was nowhere to be seen after 10 minutes. Releasing his inner optimist, Paul focused on his main plan — getting sloshed as quickly as possible.

He was admiring a huge chandelier, wondering how the heck they got it up there, when he felt as if a dagger was prodding his back. Swirling around, much less elegantly than intended, he locked eyes with a man sitting at the bar. A droplet of sweat dribbled all the way from under his collar to the lower-back area, the sharp gaze of the fella making him painfully aware of that and much more - his cheeks burning under his beard; a suit jacket a tad too tight around his shoulder (yet another side effect of his post-breakup coping system); his tongue lounging heavily in his mouth; the cold glass in his hand...

Seeking a help from the latter, he tipped it up to do something, absolutely not expecting the other guy to bloody _wink_ at him. His cough, very similar to the one his great-aunt Harriet experienced, caught the attention of approximately 20 people. Even more after George's dainty, yet surprisingly strong, fist landed on his back.

Broken spine aside he welcomed his formerly lost friend as an excuse to retreat. George was brimming over with enthusiasm so untypical for his otherwise poised self. The reason behind that peculiar change of character introducing itself in a form of a shorter lad with eyes so bright blue it put Alain Delon to shame. Richard, or Ringo, as the boy himself rushed to add with a bright smile, proved to be one hell of a brilliant company - they launched into a discussion about music in no time flat.

Still, it was clear from the beginning George and Ringo had eyes only for themselves, and Paul was quite content just to listen. After he spotted a vacated bottle of champagne, that is.

Suddenly a young woman popped up, approaching him with a devilish grin. His mind pleasantly hazed, he maximised his charm, and soon they were engaging in a quite flirtatious chit-chat. It was then, he was just about to compliment her on her hair or dress, he couldn't remember, when he saw the stranger again.

In an instant the dialogue with the blonde lost all its charm, if it ever possessed any in the first place. A rush of pure adrenaline, something that hadn't occurred in ages, tickled his nerves. The words kept flowing out of his mouth, but his eyes raked over the man's form, the position allowing him to take in everything the shock upon their first "meeting" denied.

He, too, was wearing a suit, the fabric flowing nattily around his rather rectangular form. His pure existence captivated Paul, the intensity of that stare lingering in the back of his head. He embodied pure chaos while lazying around, Paul imagined him as the kid all teachers would pray to not have in their class. If it wasn't for people running left and right and centre hampering Paul's purposed _observation_ , he could stand there the entire night.

Then, Paul was admiring the graceful curve of his hawk-like nose, the man slowly turned around, presumably feeling Paul's gaze as he, himself, before, and stared, even narrowing his eyes, only to resume his previous activity.

Of course Paul didn't quite gather his wits to avert his gaze on time.

God, flirting with men was already so much more complicated, why couldn't he simply smile? How should one know whether he was just mistaking him for an old buddy, trying to silently tell him to fuck off, or, actually, signal a possible interest in him as... as in sexually?

The champagne taking its tool, Paul excused himself and, his heartbeat echoing in his ears, sauntered to the very bar. Ignoring the little voice telling him _to abort the mission_ , he slid himself onto the second closest stool (to feign indifference), ordering a drink.

For a longer moment nothing happened, and he was beyond grateful for not foolishly plonking himself down right next to him. Eyes fixed on his glass, he twitched abruptly when there was shuffling of someone getting up then sitting down impossibly close, another glass clinking against the wooden bar.

“Nice of you to come.”

The voice was rough, nasal, yet Paul had a gut feeling the speaker was more than capable of talking softly.

“You looked lonely.” He remarked, still not feeling brave enough to look at the man. He was being inspected, that much he could tell, if his cheeks and even ears heating up were of any indication.

There was a short laugh, genuinely amused. Then the same voice whispered, dangerously close to Paul's ear, a scent of cologne mixed with cigarette smoke titillating his nose.

“Yeah? Would you like to keep me a company then?”

It was probably the almost non-existent proximity between them, or the delicacy of the fingers taking away his already empty glass, but all his blood started to flow directly south, his dick jerking lightly as if to say “greetings to you, too.”

And wasn't that damn ironic, considering not so long ago he had a barely hidden breast of an attractive lady pushed into his face while that damn thing minded its own business, withered as old herbs.

“Oh?”

He winced, knowing very well how fiddly his attempts at flirting with lads could get. Ever a bit ignorant and left-handed when it came to emotions, he could bet his last pence he would be still parading around, proudly declaring himself heterosexual, if it hadn't been for George and his willingness to introduce him to different people, labels, finally gently pointing out his attraction to some men could be, in fact, described as bisexuality.

“Oh, and I'm John. Utterly pleased to meet you.”

He mockingly imitated a voice of those über-cheerful people from TV commercials, but no malignity was to be heard.

Always remembering his manners, Paul's head shot up in unison with his right hand.

“Paul.”

John didn't extend his hand immediately, instead he was watching him as if figuring out an enigma. Then, ever so slowly, but with a smile, he reciprocated the gesture.

A memory of reading Faust, the scene of sealing the deal, flashed before Paul's eyes. For a moment he didn't doubt John could be the devil. Then a soft, yet calloused hand, which reminded him of his own — perhaps he played music, too? — touched his, and nothing felt more right.

John suggested having a smoke outside, complaining about the place being too crammed and people being louder than necessary, but there was a promise within those words, convincing Paul they wouldn't come back.

He contemplated finding George at first, but upon seeing the mass of people, he settled for a message instead, hoping he wouldn't be found dead the next day.

The weather wasn't playing any games and the crisp, cold air significantly sobered him within the first 5 minutes John'd spent by fumbling around for fags, then light. (And fishing out a pair of thick-rimmed glasses instead. Then proceeding to give him a once-over, casually complimenting Paul on his looks. He had never been that flustered.)

His back turned to the cold wall, he strained himself to focus mainly on puffs of smoke. Breathe in, breathe out. Still, his eyes flicked frequently across John's face. Grinning like the Cheshire cat, lit merely by a sizzling end of his cigarette, to Paul he looked gorgeous.

John was shorter than him, a tad, but every inch of him occupied the space with effortless sharpness. He hadn't disrupted Paul's personal space and, god knows why, that infuriated him greatly. Blaming that on alleged sexual frustration, Paul's mouth opened on its own accord.

“Not going to kill me, are you? Being strangers and all.”

He trailed off unsurely, the cigarette failing to the ground as he realised what kind of bollocks he **actually** uttered. His body froze, an instinctive reaction to shame slowly closing its claw around his neck.

For a split of second there was silence one could hear a pin falling before John emitted a hyena-like laugh. Then, as if invisible fingers snapped, he stomped out the remaining butt and stepped closer to Paul, one hand sneaking up to rest just few inches next to Paul's head.

“Wouldn't that be a shame?” He clicked his tongue and, mouth dangerously close to Paul's ear, again, added: “Had more enjoyable things on my mind.”

A shiver run down his spine, and, immediately, a huge smug grin lightened up John's face, of course he would notice, that bastard.

In the hope of seeming less like a passive prey, Paul's hand crept up the lapel of the coat John was wearing to nestle itself on his shoulder, pulling closer.

He could observe how John's pupils widened slightly, and Paul himself couldn't fight the urge to lean forward and place a chaste kiss to those thin lips.

Eyes shut, he pulled back quickly, not feeling braze enough to continue. He only blinked once before he was pushed to the wall, John's mouth covering his own in what could be only described as a very seductive kiss.

It combined soft with rough. Firm hands, holding him in place by his shoulder and hip, contrasting the sensual rhythm of their lips sliding together. At one point John's tongue playfully tickled Paul's bottom lip, drawing a weak moan from him. He could feel John's lips as he smiled and was fully prepared to complain, when he began to trail small wet kisses down the area of Paul s throat, pulling the impending collar to the side.

Gulping to muffle another sounds, Paul seized a hold of John's fluffy hair, raking his finger through the soft strands. The kisses climbed higher, teeth teasing the pale skin. When John vivaciously bit at a spot right under Paul's chin, he gasped in surprise, twisting his fist and tugging sharply. It must be good, though, as he received a pleasant hiss and John's lips found his again.

This time kissing urgently, taking hold of his jaw, too, licking into his mouth hungrily as soon as Paul let out another groan. They fought for dominance, John admittedly having a better position and winning, using small licks to make Paul chase that wicked tongue of his, fingers stroking his neck lightly.

When a leg wormed between his legs, John's bony knee spreading them slightly, it was as clear as day Paul wasn't the only one struggling with a pressing boner.

Summoning the rest of his confidence and strength (not having been intimate for a while truly threw one off balance), Paul's hand slid from John's shoulder to his hip, then, ever so slightly, caressed his crotch.

The other man's balance ceased to exist immediately, his mouth going slack after wheedling a whine (a fucking delicious whine at that, Paul felt as if he had conquered the world), his hands endeavouring to prevent him from knocking both of them to the wet, cold ground.

Paul would gladly continue previous ministrations, if it wasn't for a sudden burst of people departing the very same bar.

As if struck by electricity, both of them leapt back to create an illusion of 2 friends, who hadn't almost dry-humped just seconds away. Absolutely not, dear sir.

John's smile was self-satisfied, but there was something fragile in his eyes. (“Very beautiful,” Paul's mind supplied.) He cleared his throat, voice barely a whisper.

“Have a place just 'round the corner. We could, if ye like, go there. 's warmer 'n'all.”

And maybe it was the booze flowing in his blood; or the way John appeared almost bashful despite the brave words. It could be his body protesting against the cold, but Paul found himself nodding eagerly.

Way too much, perhaps, his brain not wasting a second to remind him that. But John's grin merely softened around the edges. His movements halting, as if Paul's reaction had flabbergasted him, he nodded, more to himself, and smiling like a madman, he set about scanning the street for a taxi.

As for Paul, well, he caught a peek of the shiny surface of John's lips, _glistening_ with their spit, and he hoped John's flat was really just around the corner.

Every fibre in his body vibrating with a pressing urge to find out whether John's skin was that smooth as he imagined, or what kind of sinful sounds he could coax out of that lovely mouth.

Before his mind could supply even ribalder images, Paul had to put on the pace as John succeeded in pulling up a passing cab and began to make his way towards it, casting his motionless companion a questioning look.

The game was afoot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to divide it into multiple chapters, because it's going to be a long ride (f̶o̶r̶ ̶J̶o̶h̶n̶,̶ ̶t̶o̶o̶), if only I could write essays of similar length :):):)
> 
> [my tumblr](https://dusted-0negin.tumblr.com)


	2. Slashing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> behold, their fornicate
> 
> (after approximately 900 characters, we burn slow in this house)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As an amateur I have to remark writing filth ain't easy. I even drew a diagram to establish neither of those dodos would strike a bizarre pose.
> 
> Dynamic-wise it's more of push&pull, kind of, errr, rip my initial idea of dom!john, but it didn't sit right with me. At least for this fic.
> 
> I dare to day it's better than Fifty Shades of Grey, but nevertheless, don't gouge yer eyes out :-))))

Once comfortably seated, the reality of what was about to happen had finally dawned on Paul, encouraging the whole lot of gears and cogs to begin to gnash in his head.

Did he use a deodorant? Wasn't it pointless after so many hours of sweating? Was John going to laugh at his awkwardness? Hadn't he read somewhere too much alcohol can make one gassy? That would be disgusting, wouldn't it. Would they need condoms? Had they established a silent agreement regarding the possible penetration? If so who would take it? At what age should one stop worrying too much? Did he close the windows before leaving his flat???

Not that he could be described as anything remotely close to a blushing virgin but after almost a year without any funny business conducted, he had a suspicion the course of getting the other person off could get a bit rusty. Not to mention the possibility of John turning into a serial killer. Wasn't Ted Bundy extremely charming too?

tap, tap, tap

A sound crashed his bubble of overthinking. Fearing it was the car's last words (how came he hadn't thought of that??), Paul searched for the source, noticing John's leg jumping up and down.

Not so calm then, eh?

Too familiar with churning nerves, he scooted closer carefully, and placed his hand on John's knee, fingertips grazing it just slightly.

The zippy limb paused its movements and, feeling bolder since there was nothing indicating protest, he allowed his fingers to travel higher, tracing the inseam.

He couldn't wait for repeating the very same action without any _stupid_ fabric cumbering the way. But, now, he settled for stroking the other's man thigh.

His ears pricking up, he relished the meekest of gasps as John's legs spread invitingly. Paul's hands were itching to climb even higher, but not an exhibitionist, he opted for a gentle squeeze. This time John's breath hitched, his hand coming to rest on the top of Paul's, probably an attempt to guide it to a specific area.

He felt himself giving up, his inhibitions packing up and leaving for a holiday, when the car stopped abruptly.

“Gentlemen, this is it, I believe.”

The harsh yet kind tinge of the driver's voice reminded him of his father. The not very suitable connotation (“don't! don't! do not think about Jim, not now!”) slapping Paul across his face, a faint blush transforming into the shade of a beetroot. He sprang out of the damn vehicle as if a goose nipped his bum, suddenly too eager to breathe fresh air. A wave of relief washed over him upon seeing John's was chatting with the driver, head bowed. His embarrassment went unnoticed!

Hands wormed into the pockets of his coat, he refused to believe they had mingled in weather this repulsive. He fidgeted, feeling like a background character. The fact that he had been so easily convinced not to share the bill ruffling his nerves. Did John expect him to play the role of a woman now? Not that he could pass for a one, with the beard, maybe if he shaved? Dot put a lipstick on him once. Had a great laugh, too.

Negative, abandon.

What if John belong to those perverts who-ABADON.

One of Paul's fancy shod feet tapped to the frozen ground, clattering, and soon a rhythm was born — heel, toe, heel, toe, ok, not ok, okay, heel, toe...

“You do cabaret dancing, too?”

His mouth was about to protest, but John, ever the subtle one, grabbed his hand, steering him towards one of the fancy houses. (Paul was determined not to let on how much he enjoyed little shocks tingling his skin whenever they touched.)

John's grasp hadn't weakened till they arrived to the front door of his flat. And even then he'd been fiddling with the key longer that necessary, stubbornly refusing to use both hands. A fear of getting on with business there prompted Paul's intervention in that delicate matter.

Ignoring the pout forming on John's lips (oops, somebody didn't like being helped), he sashayed into a very minimalistic flat.

That kind of minimalistic when you had to double-check whether someone actually occupied the space, and real estate agents could run tours at the drop of a hat.

That threw him off balance, significantly. If anything John struck him as a person who would have a guillotine in the middle of their living room to capture the essence of classicism. He was prepared for layers of colourful carpets, heaps of paintings as eccentric as the owner but his eyes only landed on vacant walls.

Torn between his want to ask and the exact opposite, Paul began to pace around the place. Fully clothed as opposed to John who as soon as they entered kicked off his shoes and was now running about — drawing down curtains; setting the lights; disappearing into one room; emerging from the other with no jacket, his tie loosened up. He casually shrugged upon observing his guest's uneasiness.

“That's divorce for ye.”

Time to accept Paul's perplexity was nor subtle nor cunning. He cleared his throat, suddenly feeling too hot, and rushed to hastily undo his coat, laying it over the arm rest of a giant sofa.

John eyed him warily from where he was leaning on a massive wooden drawer. Paul felt as if somebody was holding a burning candle just an inch above his skin. Burning, burning. A thin film of sweat covering his palms, somehow the thick silence was boarding on deafening, roaring like the busiest street.

“I think I'm not drunk enough for this.”

He let out a shuddering breath, the confession flunking to the depths of Paul's mind. If he didn't see how John's eyes flicked down; suddenly very invested in observing his bare toes or how one of his hand flew to his hair; messing it up, he would consider those words a mere remark. A sign of indifference perhaps.

However, sensing the other man's tension, he took two steps forward.

“Me neither.”

His throat tight, he followed the way John's lips parted, absent-mindedly licking his own. The floor croaked as he got closer and closer, previous insecurities fading out. Maybe for the first time the habit of pushing down his feelings could be useful.

Each step carrying more confidence than the previous, Paul halted in his tracks, keeping a healthy distance. He heard the tick of a clock somewhere, making him briefly wonder of time.

“May I-?”

The tiniest nod he received encouraged him to cross the last barrier.

Hands coming to rest on John's shoulders and, anything resembling precaution thrown to the wind, he leaned forward, lips skimming over now exposed neck.

Hallelujah.

Spurred by the long sign that escaped John's lips he gripped the other man, pushing him flush against his chest. Small wet kiss was smacked right behind his ear, then tongue darted out, creating a wet trail down to John's collarbone, teeth scraping the skin there, enjoying how responsive the older man was — head lolling to the side, exposing more skin; and, Paul's left hand a witness, straining against the fabric of his slacks.

His own dick demanding attention rather forcefully, Paul backed off to spin John around, manhandling him easily, so he could see him in better light (finally something useful coming out from those extra pounds).

It wasn't the sight to be ignored. Creamy skin dotted with freckles flushed, eyes shut in pleasure, an adorable crease between his eyebrows and a purplish mark on his neck. _Piece of art_.

“Alright?”

“Yeah, 's just I-,” John harshly stopped himself, one hand raking through his hair, the other hanging uselessly. “I haven't done this--” the limp limb gestured vaguely between their bodies “--in ages, wouldn't like-would hate to do something wrong.”

Paul's heart was thumping as if he just ran a marathon. This experience was getting more anomalous each minute.

Always the one to welcome a challenge, his finger slipped to John's chest where it circled the polished button.

“That makes two of us, y'know.”

“You mean-?”

Not bothering to elaborate, the air around them thickening with unspoken words, he brought their lower halves almost together, as if testing how long it'd take before the heat radiating from their bodies would erode all attempts at keeping it cool.

“We could practise.”

John's hips inched the tiniest tad forward, their cocks rubbing lusciously, the coarse fabric of their trousers providing extra friction. Small wet puffs of air made Paul groan and clench the skin of John's shoulder with his teeth.  
Apparently he wasn't the only one reckoning they should ameliorate this little game, his breath hitching as he felt his shirt being hiked up from his slacks, a cold hand curling around his sides.

Longing for a proper kiss, he tilted John's head and pressed their lips together, moaning as John used his strength to guide him backwards, not interrupting their mouth colliding, quite the contrary. By the time Paul's knees hit the spacious sofa, his head was swirling pleasantly high.

There was no combat for the upper hand, John regaining his typical (at least for this evening) verve, not giving Paul a moment to breathe. Literally, as after his back landed on the sateen-covered couch, they resumed their favourite activity — staring — panting like dogs.

Not one to abstain, John immediately domiciliated himself between Paul's legs, untying the laces of his exquisite shoes. (Paul'd spent over an hour polishing them just _right_.) Next up, or down, everything seemed upside-down, anyway, were socks, folded neatly and placed inside Paul's derby shoes. A domestic gesture he didn't anticipate.

Tickling lightly the sole of his foot, then climbing up the shin, knee, thigh... John's fingers stroked the belt before unbuckling it. Surely, confidently. The sound of metal jingling announcing trousers would be thrown away, too.

Except John, tugging him down by his hips and looking him dead in the eye, latched his mouth to Paul's still clothed crotch.

Trashing about, a pathetic as well as pointless attempt at grounding himself, he concentrated on not coming right there. Into his pants. Just because an attractive fella kissed his crotch. After a year-long celibate. NO!

As a musically inclined person he was **mortified** when he caught on those high-pitched yelps following lewd slurping were, in fact, his own. Making a mental note to never consider career in the pornography industry, he clutched one of the pillows and placed it over his face.

“Jo-hcmm!”

He wanted to relocate the attention of the other man, but there must be something akin to a telepathic connection between them as, precisely at that exact moment, John swiftly unzipped the fly of his trousers, then leisurely lifted Paul's bum, sliding them off.

He nosed the obvious bulge in Paul's drawers. Then rested his chin on his stomach, resembling Martha when she wanted attention.

“If you suffocate yourself with mr aunt's pillow, I'm throwing your body to the Thames.”

Huffing, Paul obliged and dared to look down. Not the best move, as John's almond eyes were black, hair tousled (Paul became awkwardly aware of his right hand being firmly embedded within the auburn tuft. Damned be traitorous body parts.) and saliva wetting the corners of his lips.

“Can't you just kiss me?”

His heart melted when John's face lit up at that, a row of tiny sharp teeth peeking, giving him somehow mischievous look. “Full of contrasts, this one,” Paul mused before air was knocked out of his lungs — one should be careful to voice their wishes.

Eyes heavy, his other senses perking up, he was pressed down to soft cushions by John's weight, not able to move a centimetre even if he longed to. Hands were roaming over his bare body covered by a thin film of sweat. His own nails scraping over the skin of John's lower back, he sipped the surprised hum it evoked.

At one moment John did something _marvellous_ and Paul threw his head back in pure bliss, unable to keep up with the sloppy rhythm of their tongues. Not halting the most pleasurable of attacks, John ventured lower, nipping at Paul's neck, pausing for quite a while at his addam's apple, alternating between leisure licks and sucking. Releasing the skin with a loud plop, he slithered down, sweat mixing with saliva.

Hand splayed over Paul's tummy, he pecked the head of his leaking, still-in-boxers cock, contently neglecting it in favour of marking up the milky thighs.

The audacity! Not trusting his ability to communicate, Paul shifted his body experimentally, sputtering grumpily.

After good 5 minutes of this...torture? foreplay? There was a liberating tug right at the waistband of his underwear, his cock bobbing up rapturously. Paul had no time to actually enjoy not having a damp cloth around his crotch because John blew lightly at the red head.

His leg kicked out in shock and a surprised treble-ish meow slipped out, much to that wanker's delight. Giggling like a schoolgirl he had the nerve to pat his hip.

“Shhh, quiet, quiet, 'm practising.”

Then, not waiting for Paul's reply, which would be of no comprehensibility anyway, _fucking finally_ licked a long stripe, from the base to the tip, before swallowing him down, deepthroating like a professional harlot. Slick movements gradually brisking up, tongue swirling around the top, a bit of teeth here and there.

Paul attempted to open his eyes, feeling like and idiot, but he wasn't sure he would be able to last after seeing John doing magic. Instead, he forced (when did it become so heavy?) his left hand to get a grip of John's shirt-clad shoulder.

His back arched, he mustered all his will not to rock his hips up. Not that he sheltered Popeye the Sailor in his pants, quite the contrary, but he didn't want to personally test whether it was possible to break one's nose by being a bit too keen. The blood would definitely get on that white shirt.

Hang on.

John was still wearing a shirt.

And trousers.

With drudging effort his body, albeit confusedly, shifted into a sitting position. He grimaced at himself upon seeing the horrified expression on John's face. Fuck. “That much for subtlety,” he scolded internally.

“I-I, ehm.”

John's eyes were wide, the whole body the equivalent of a neon sign pointing out I N S E C U R I T I E S.

“Was that-,” his voice rough, he cleared his throat vehemently. “Did I do something wrong?”

What?

Brushing the sweaty fringe out of John's face, he wiped away few drops of pre-cum gathered on his jaw.

“Nononono, it's just-.”

The frustration guiding his action, he simply yanked John up, then decided to sink to his knees as well, clumsily pawing at the cotton garment, groaning when a smooth chest was revealed.

For a moment they were just mirrored reflection of each other. Clothed and bare. Strong and fragile. Nothing mattered, lust creating a wriggling tangle of limbs.

Paul ended with his back propped by the sofa, John firmly placed astride on his lap. The man's body felt svelte under his fingertips, protruded collarbones inviting Paul's curious lips.

He spat on his palm before stroking John's erection. It took 3 slick tugs to have him fallen apart. Soft moans muffled by Paul's neck. Mesmerizing.

If only.

The other hand squashed John's waist, wordlessly begging him to halt the rocking movement of his hips.

“Yeah?”

John merely tilted his head to articulate, fingers raking through Paul's shabby hair.

As if the flirting with the same sex didn't bring already too many obstacles, the worst question was yet to ask.

“Do we fuck?”

He could think it a little more thoroughly, or bite his tongue off. His mind flew back to Dot, this line would scupper all of his chances at getting laid. And cost him at least 5 fancy dinners.

Meanwhile, John leapt up and sprinted away, cackling like a mad hatter.

“You are such a scruff, Paulie, you are!”

Equipped with a small bottle and condoms, he dropped to all fours, his laugh not piping down a notch.

Paul blinked once, twice, examining the contents. Then caressed John's lower back.

“You sure you want to? We can do, ehm, lighter stuff, y'know.”

John cast him a nervous glance over the shoulder.

“You don't want to? I thought-”

“Yes!”

Paul hurried to reassure the other man, getting familiar with the wave of panic his face tend to display despite daring words coming out.

Knowing talking couldn't change much, he planted kisses along the spine till he was facing John's ass. Fingers toyed with the cap of lube. Then decided against it.

“Could you turn on your back, dear?”

Not paying any attention to the endearment that slipped out, Paul watched as John reluctantly complied, spreading his legs.

He pecked him on his forehead as a thank you before dropping lower, mouthing at the hairless skin, hands joining the exploration. Despite his initial goal to return the favour of teasing, he felt himself getting more and more impatient. And those little sounds John let out didn't help at all.

He carried on with the fondling, triumphantly noticing how the strung limbs melted under his touch.

A hand landed on his head as he was sucking and rubbing his face on John's inner thighs. Pretending he hadn't understood, Paul switched to wee kisses delivered precisely to the juncture of the groin.

“PAUL!”

The higher-then-usual exclamation was probably meant to be an order. He dared to chuckle. Few seconds later John'd managed to scramble up to his elbows, panting furiously.

“Just what do ye think yer doing? Listen I-I know I was a jerk back t-then but it doesn't mea-an you caAHH-.”

Rolling eyes in a mock-hassle, Paul's lips found the puckered hole, giving it an experimental smack before directing all his attention to the sensitive bundle of nerves. John fell back to his previous position with a thud and hadn't been silent since then.

Recalling the original "purpose" of their rendezvous, Paul hastily sat back to coat his fingers in the jelly substance before stealing a quick kiss, moaning in surprise when John wrapped his arms around him.

Circling the rim as a warning he slowly pressed the first digit in, then back, holding back a moan of his own — the image of his own finger working the other man being too much already.

Soon the slide eased enough to look after the spot to make it more enjoyable. John's body jolted up, a surprised “oh” moulding his mouth into the perfect on before plummeting down.

To prevent it from happening again, considering they were about to shag on the bloody timbered floor and concussion was no fun, Paul shifted his weight, picking up their interrupted kissing.

Having two fingers in, he shushed John's demands to get on with that already and added the third. “For a good measure,” he reasoned and earned himself a glance Medusa could only dream of.

With trembling hands Paul grabbed the condom, cursing when he successfully ripped the first. Determined not to let John's squeaky giggles ruin his mood, he coated himself with even more lube and pushed in, savouring the shallow breath John let out.

That was till he realised he would not last longer than 5 minutes. His left hand couldn't prepare him for the intensity of this encounter. Time to think about dead fish and mediaeval hygiene habits.

His mouth found the side of John's throat in attempt not to scream like an opera singer, failing as John's hips met his own and everything — from the warmth of the body beneath him to the unmistakable sound of flesh on _flesh —_ went right to his dick.

Brain reminding him to be gentleman, Paul's hand wrapped itself around John's cock. He focused on relentlessly hitting his prostate, which he finally located after awkwardly changing 373 different angles.  
He was utterly grateful John was too wrecked to comment. In fact, the closest parable one could make for the man in question was a puddle, he was shuddering ever so slightly, that devilish mouth of him agape.

A loud mewl resonated after Paul flicked his thumb over the head of John's leaking dick causing him to clench around him, spilling between their bodies. Paul following the suit shortly, trying to sound as casual as possible only to let out a lark-like moan.

He rolled off John as soon as he didn't feel like piece of minced beef, not wanting to smother the poor guy. The scantily-lit room becoming strangely quiet. Suddenly conscious of his nakedness and position of a stranger in the stanger's flat, Paul sat up, wincing at the thought of searching for his clothes.

Fake-cheerful of goodbye were just hoarding in his throat when a hand tenderly clamped around his waist.

“Stay?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now, a splash of holy water wil do, I SHALL HOPE


	3. Matching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they are awkward, again

The bedroom was scarcely lit, the distant buzz of the city waking up echoing in the distance. 

The clock read 6:30 and Paul'd wondered why he hadn't fucked off yet.

With his core comfortable leaning on the headboard, he'd contemplated the next move since his eyes flew open at 5 am. His body stirring in surprise at being well-rested for a change, didn't happen often as for late. Martha's determination to go for a walk being the main reason he left his bed at weekends. 

Initially, he thought he'd scramble out of the bed, hastily put on clothes and go home, relishing this like a sweet memory. At least they always did that in any movie, hell, he did it multiple times when younger. But something forced him to stay, almost as if John's voice was playing in his head. 

He glanced at his watch, 6:55, didn't move an inch in favour of sweeping his eyes over the room. A very spacious, much bigger than his crammed one. Rubbing his eyes, he finally dared to look at John. Curled on his side, he looked surprisingly mellow. No inspecting wrinkle nestled between his bushy brows. Paul's cheeks grew pink at the flutter of warm fondness spreading through his body. It all seemed so natural - from brushing their teeth together, borrowing John's pyjamas, to waking up enveloped by those strong arms - he felt as if he arrived home, whatever that was supposed to mean. 

That was till his mind gained its consciousness and chaotic thoughts started to swirl in his head. 

Did he read too much into it? John could be too drunk and that would lead to an embarrassing moment after he'd realise Paul was still there. 

He looked like a heavy sleeper, though, and Paul would know for he couldn't resist and touch John's cheek. Lightly at first, flinching in fear of getting caught, then once more, caressing the soft skin. 

7:10 - He needed to get a hold of himself. 

After musing about what _he_ would appreciate were their roles reversed, Paul got up and padded to the bathroom. Making the mistake of checking his reflection while brushing teeth, shit, he didn't recall having hair this messy.

Or his neck covered by bruises, shining like spotlights on Broadway.

His plan of making a breakfast received the first blow, but, teeth gritted in concentration, he searched for the kitchen. 

While wandering he noticed a guitar perched on the wall right next to an easel (BOTH THEN, artist and musician). He also walked to a small room, interrupting a beauty sleep of a very annoyed cat, before finally reaching his goal.

Like the rest of the room, it bore a resemblance to those show-room interiors, bordering on sterile. If it wasn't for 2 portraits of cats wearing clothes from the 18th century (he wondered if John could paint Martha too), Paul'd not dare to cross the boundaries and touch something. 

Taking into account a very limited table of contents displayed in the fridge, he set for french toasts and tea, hoping John hadn't woken up by all the noise he created.

Spending another 10 minutes by figuring out how exactly did John liked his tea, he gave up and gingerly made his way back. 

He couldn't believe he'd been prancing around in the kitchen for 40 minutes and John hadn't even stirred. 

He climbed on the bed, placing the tray next to him before panicking. 

John was still sleeping. The food was meant to be consumed warm. The same went for the tea. He would look like an utter idiot, presenting a useless breakfast.

Chewing his nails, his gaze drifted to John, again, in the proper daylight his hair shone like copper, highlighting rosy cheeks. Unlike Paul, the man slept shirtless, and there was no denying who was the author of various hickeys scattered across the pale skin. 

Paul was just in the middle of admiring the whole scene, practically comparing John to the Venus when the till-then steady breaths grew erratic and John's nose wrinkled up as if he was sniffing around.

The gesture reminded Paul of Martha, he entertained the idea of John making those peculiar leg movements, too, when the man in question abruptly sat up as if recreating the scene of Dracula rising from his coffin.

Paul shrieked in horror. 

John screamed in response.

Then peeled his eyes open, gaze alternating between Paul and the food, a smirk forming on his lips.

"You scream like a bar singer."

Paul didn't think before swatting him on the shoulder. 

"I wasn't the only one, y'know, you could make it to the choir with that trill of yours."

John only nodded, seemingly not bothered by the remark.

"You stayed then." 

"Aye."

He hoped John would say something, but he stared at him, that pestering wrinkle emerging out of nowhere. Paul's fingers began to tap a rhythm on his knee. 

"Sh-shouldn't have?"

It was meant to sound casual, but the damned stutter betrayed him.

shitshitshitshitshitshit

A hand touched his twitching palm reassuringly.

Paul wasn't the only one trying to hid his embarrassment behind fidgety limbs of the flicking ankle tucked under the duvet, was anything to go by. 

"Didn't expect ye, 'm glad though." 

Paul didn't know he held his breath till he let out a breathless chuckle. With shaking hands (why why is he quivering like a tree) he pointed to the platter, anxiously observing as John took the first bite and sip as if to ask "alright?" 

Not batting an eye John send him a smile. 

_More than alright._

Neither of them spoke, Paul automatically going to retrieve the dishes while John disappeared to the bathroom.

They met again in the bedroom, both scarcely clad and visibly flustered.

"Right," John forced out, scratching his neck.

"Well," Paul mirrored the gesture, picking up his trousers.

He cringed at the pathetic choice of words, what happened to the always well-spoken, charming Paul? Maybe he should simply ask for John's number? Nonchalantly, of course, pretending it's George.

"Would you-" 

"Do you-"

They spoke in unison, both startled by the voice of the other. John's hand drew a vague shape in the air, wordlessly urging Paul to speak first.

"Would you like to, like, join me for a walk? With my dog, like. Martha. That's her name. "

John frowned. Paul panicked.

"Or not, doesn't matter, sorry, I should have shut up. Yea. Sorry."

"Nono," John interrupted the apologetic babbling. "It's just, OF COURSE, you would have a dog."

"Ehm, is it yes?"

"Are you always this oblivious?"

Paul could only laugh nervously. Was he? Or did John take the piss out of him, he seemed like that kind of guy. 

"I'd love that."

John's voice caught him in time as he could feel himself spiralling into overthinking. He repeated those words in his head before smiling.

"'s a date then?"

He relished the way John's eyes brightened up. God, Ivan and George are going to pester him for ages.

"Wouldn't have it any other way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I actually finished this despite my brain boycotting me the entire time (cheers to grammarly, I'd be fucked), thanks for reading and all that jazzy jazz


End file.
